


Bloom

by Bladespeaker



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff, HAVE A VERY PURELY INDULGENT FICTION, I edited this for about a week, Ionia - Freeform, Jhin has slight PTSD, Painting, When I imported this .... it was nearly 20 pages, debates over tea, it's not explicit, like ... this is the closest thing I'll get to writing romance novels, so here you go, well I am never doing that again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Jora Wyldsdottir was once apprenticed to the enigmatic painter, Khada Jhin.  When an offhanded remark about her self-worth catches his ear, he offers a solution.  The final result catches both of them by surprise.
Relationships: Khada Jhin/Original Character
Kudos: 12





	Bloom

The door opens to a simple, elegant home; the absence of the heavy scent of flowers from the garden that leads to it makes my head spin. Warm sunlight filters through the windows in the living room to the right as I step into the entryway. A sofa rests just off to the side; I have seen the artist lie there before. Now its only occupant is an abandoned canvas that lies waiting for his inspiration to return and for him to finish the work-in-progress. I call out and hope that I’m not intruding on any other works, for while the Ionian is notorious in his pursuit of artistic perfection – a noble trait, to be sure –it does have the tendency to make him tetchy. 

The doorknob’s petaled curves are long familiar to my hand as I pull it closed behind me. It clicks shut, muting the sounds of springtime outside as I turn and place my sandals on a small set of shelves by the door. As I continue to walk through, my eyes are drawn to the ceiling; intricately painted trails of lotus blossoms, leaves, vines, and roots whorl through the fresco above. The artist is obsessed with the flowers, believing them to be symbols of reincarnation and perfection; this is merely one of his more forgivable quirks. The ceiling had been his largest work; when I had last asked how long it took him to complete, he stated its timeframe as a mere year.

I cannot help but marvel at all he had accomplished in such a short time. The waters that the lotuses float on move with invisible currents, yet despite the light he had painted through them, one couldn’t shake the feeling of something sinister lurking behind the roots and below the voluptuous blooms. It is simple, but mesmerizing. His technique has to be studied to be fully appreciated, and once that has been accomplished, there is no denying the truth: He is a master of the arts, well-deserving of any patience his temperament demands.

I lower my gaze and stretch my neck. I still can’t see him; he is likely hidden away in one of his sunrooms, deep in preparations for another work. I return to the hallway for my satchel and walk through the kitchen to place it on the small, round table tucked around its doorframe. A frustrated sigh escapes my lips; I don’t know why I expected him to be waiting for me. I hesitate briefly before I shrug and enter the kitchen. There is a simple teakettle on an iron stove in the back of the room; the sight is quaint and simple, almost rustic for a man obsessed with elegance and grace. Yet there it sits beneath neat bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, like a fat black hen in the wood-and-paper-paneled room. Its chimney is well-polished; a little feed of coal and wood rests on one side; its brushes and shovel lean on the other. I take a slow breath, inhale the scent of burning pinewood – more useful for its smell than its use as quick, hot-burning fuel – and smile. It is a familiar odor, reminiscent of the Freljordian woods in the northern part of the western continent, so far from this island nation I now call home. A subtle hint that he has not forgotten our appointment. 

At the thought, I pause; my fingers absently fiddle with the buttons at the throat of my white blouse. Our relationship is a strange one; it is friendly but professional, with a cautious wariness that seems to hint that he may be interested in taking it in another direction. This appointment is another step in those uncertain waters. It had begun with an offhanded comment I had made – how frustrating it was to find clothing here, how graceless I felt compared to the women around me, how I hardly felt beautiful in the presence of my peers. I suspect I may have been speaking from a lack of sleep at that point. Somehow, my pathetic rambling had struck him with a bout of inspiration, and the artist had offered a remedy to my problem. He had asked for certain measurements, written to procure no small amount of cloth, and ordered me to return in a few months’ time to his summer house, where we had conducted the lion’s share of our studies over the past year.

Of course, there is a snarl in the would-be “professional” aspect of our relationship: We are no longer truly under any former obligations _of _said professionalism. I had traveled here last year to study acrylics under his tutelage with several other students from around the world. Many of my colleagues had, by completion of either the course or their patience, moved on. He was a demanding master, but those who weren’t crushed under his sharp observations and criticisms learned to appreciate his insight. When the contract officially completed, our respect and friendship did not, though there are still times where I call him “Master” and he calls me “Apprentice.” Neither of us can quite kick the habit.

I wonder if his wish to use me as a subject for whatever portrait he has planned is an indicator of some deeper admiration or affection. As an artist myself, I know full well the significance one can attach to a subject, and the thought of being a potential heart’s-muse isn’t unwelcome, even if it is ridiculous. Of course, should that be the case, there are certainly worse people to be involved with. He is driven, calm, determined, and intelligent, and over the course of our conversations during and beyond our studies of art, has displayed a remarkable knowledge of both the classical and practical arts – from the sciences and bladework, to poetry, theatre, and martial artistry. That we share so many interests and curiosities had proven a catalyst for our friendship early on and is a source of continual understanding now.

I reach into my pack and remove my brushes while I wait, unrolling their holder onto the table and removing my most recent work. A girlish blush, traitorous, rises to my ears. The artist is a fascinating individual; an inspiration – yet my fascination has become something else. Even if he is thinking of our relationship in terms which may go beyond friendship and professionalism, _I_ am being unfair by playing with ideas which are quite possibly stuck in only one head – fantasizing of possibly being something _other_ than a friend, something… 

I raise one of the thicker brushes to my lips and nibble on the hair. No. No more dwelling on thoughts like that. I’ve given them too much time already.

The pine pops in the stove as I remove the kettle and pour a dash of hot water into two cups – one, his, for tea, that I will drink. The other, chipped, dirty, for paint – clearly labeled in case the appearance doesn’t help give a hint. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve accidentally drunk paint-water instead of my tea. I replace the kettle, sit down, and smile to myself as I carefully remove my canvas from my bag. I can almost imagine the Artist’s deep, melodic baritone in my ear –

“Did you forget our session?”

_That_ wasn’t my imagination. I shoot to my feet with a yelp of surprise and whirl to face him. A faint smile has curved its way onto his thin lips, triumphant at my red-eared musings. This is at least the third time he has caught me in my head, but the first while I have been in his home. With how he moves, I am half-certain he is part cat, completely silent on foot with his simple house-slippers on the tile floor. Even though he is nearly twenty years older than me, his neatly-cut black hair has no hint of gray in it, and there is a simple handsomeness to his face; it is fine and high-browed, if lean, with expressive almond eyes, an angular jaw, and sharp cheekbones. Some may say that his mouth is a bit wide, or his ears are a touch big, but his lips are expressive, and his hearing is astute.

He has already stepped out of my personal space and is standing in the doorframe by the time I compose myself, wiping red paint from his hands onto a cloth that is hung on a loop at his belt. He is tall and long-limbed, with a slender, muscular form that speaks of his skill in both dance and the martial arts. In addition to the slippers, he is wearing a simple pair of tailored black trousers adorned with a thin belt of oily black leather; several small steel hooks and loops in the material hold pouches of paint and brushes. His upper torso is garbed by a high-collared, sleeveless maroon shirt with black accents and golden buttons. I have to tear my gaze from the mesmerizing ripple of tendons that move beneath his skin as he rolls the last bit of paint off of a brush. 

“No, Khada, sir. I did not forget.” A half-playful barb darts from my lips. “But I was beginning to wonder if _you_ had.”

The artist pushes his brush into a pouch with enough force that I can hear it _clack_ alongside its brethren. His expression is unamused, and for half a second, I fear I may have truly nettled him. His prior theatre experience has afforded him the ability to mask his face and emotions, making it nearly-impossible to read him when he wishes to keep to himself. Despite his usual levelheadedness, his temper is slow to rise but legendary, and I would rather not raise it during one of our usually-pleasant sessions. It is only the shrug and the brow he quirks at my comment that dissuade my unease; he merely takes my remark as a challenge. 

“My dear girl,” he sighs, and he very deliberately, slowly cleans his hands on the rag again before replacing it, “I have never, in our many, _many _months of acquaintance and apprenticeship, forgotten our appointments. You are one of the few students I could abide and, dare I say, enjoy the company of – though at times I wonder _why _– and, aside from a few extenuating circumstances, I have not missed our meetings once.”

I already am rolling my brushes back into their holder. Our appointment, after all, is not for _me_ to hone my skills. I purse my lips and raise another sentence to his. “Is that so, Master Jhin?”

He gives a slow smile with a glint in his eyes that catches like a hook in my belly. “Of course, my apprentice.”

I really cannot help but wonder _how_ he thinks a woman is to imagine he is still trying to be professional when he practically purrs the sentence.

The thought lingers as he looks down his aquiline nose at me, scrutinizing my frame in a way that is somehow both detached and interested. “You wore loose clothing. Good. It will better allow for the costume change.”

The change in subject reminds me of why I’m here. “I do recall the meaning of our meeting,” I say to convince myself. I clear my throat and pray he doesn’t take it as an inference for anything other than a need for the tea I haven’t finished making. 

“Mm.” He gestures vaguely to where I sit. “You’ve lost weight since we last spoke. I do hope it was accomplished by _healthy _means this time.”

That he can tell even with my loose-fitting clothing is yet another testament to his eye for detail. I smile in a hopeful attempt to dissuade his piercing umber stare. “I _am_ still eating.”

Of course, I’m not going to admit that the thought of the upcoming portrait has been making me too _nervous_ to eat at times, or that there are days where I’m too deep in a work or painting to notice those signs of need. The language barrier between myself and most Ionians hasn’t helped with food procurement, either. He is of a very few who know how to speak my tongue and can understand my clumsy attempts to speak his own. 

He shakes his head with the patient exasperation of a professor to a wayward student. “Don’t _forget_ to eat. I won’t have you waste away for such a stupid reason. And keep practicing your speech; just because _I_ can understand it doesn’t mean there’s a _hook_ in the Ionian _r_.” 

Despite the sharpness of his words, I can sense concern beneath them. The scolding recalls memories of family members, and the thought of him wearing their old, fur-lined coats is so ridiculous that I cannot help the laugh that bursts from my lips. At the sound, he rolls his eyes and does a precise about-face to enter the kitchen. The scents of sandalwood, lotus blossoms, and metal polish whirl in his wake. 

“I see you’ve already made yourself at home,” he says, and rummages through the simple shelving units where he stores his tea. The afternoon sun casts fiery highlights in his dark hair from the window by the stove; it is only just starting to descend. “I do hope you haven’t tried to drink my _pu’erh_.”

“No, don’t worry; I learned that lesson the first time.” 

I can hear the smile in his voice as he hums, continuing his search. His fingers wave over the tins as he reaches for them, singing softly. “First tin’s wrong, second tin’s empty, third tin’s gone, and the fourth…”

“Is for me,” I finish. “Well, you; the first is always for me.” I finally strain the leaves from my cup with a sieved spoon and give it a sip. Mint. Cool and crisp like spring, washes over my tongue; by now the brew is almost too strong. 

He gives another luxurious sigh. “Women make such fantastic assumptions these days,” he says, and takes down his tin to scoop four small spoonfuls of fragrant leaves into his cup. There are four sharp clinks as the spoon stirs the dark leaves to the bottom of his cup. It will take four minutes for his brew to finish, and not a second more. “Suppose I was to remove the tin you’ve claimed as your own,” he says, and half-turns towards me as he leans against the wooden counter-top; his cup is held easily in his long-fingered hands. “What would you do then?” He raises it to his lips; it’s a gesture to fill the space; he won’t even touch the liquid until it has finished brewing.

“Well, then it wouldn’t be four.” I lower myself back into the seat and continue while he watches me through the cloud of steam. “And _that_ wouldn’t be right, because four is …”

_“Perfection.” _He nods and draws out the word, speaks it slowly, a long, low hum of contentment given form. His eyes half-close, and he raises the cup to his lips in another empty motion. “You’ve paid attention.”

“You’ve taught me to,” I say simply. “You know, most Ionians I speak with have a terrible fear of the number. They say it sounds like their word for death.”

“Oh, it does,” he says easily. His eyes open again; in the fading light, I can see flecks of fiery red in them – it is easier to see them in the shadows, but when his mood is high, regardless of light, they burn like live coals. I can almost hear the seconds ticking by in his brain – not yet there for the tea, not yet. “Most of them,” he continues, and a faint curl of contempt curves his upper lip over surprisingly-straight teeth, “also insist on burning offerings to dead men, or throwing salt over their shoulders to ward off demons and bad luck.”

I smile as I settle further into the chair. My half-opened satchel rests nearly-forgotten on the table’s polished wood. “Listen to the man mock his own culture. Are you truly Ionian?” I tease. 

The curve thins into a line; I am barely able to keep myself from sucking in a breath from the instinctual unease that rises as his mood shifts. I feel my back press into the chair and tell myself to ignore the dark rumors I’ve heard whispered about the man in front of me, that they’re just rumors, that he wouldn’t really hurt me. 

“Is Ionia its traditions?” he asks evenly. He sets the cup down with a deadly _clink_ on the counter next to him. “More than the blood that has been spilled?” He raises his hands; he is an actor without a stage, a statesman speaking to an audience of one. “Is Ionia not the _now_?” He bends over me, face inches from mine, muscles taut in the arms that grab the edges of my chair. “Our history is full of blood and battle. Even today, Noxus claims goodwill while pushing against our borders at the southwest shore, encroaching on _our _lands. People who look so deeply into the past to guide them will join their venerated ancestors sooner than they might think. The men who perished in those battles prayed to their ancestors and could have thrown cliffs of salt over their shoulders, and _look where they are now.”_

I hadn’t known such a thoughtless remark would set him off; he doesn’t often speak of the Noxian invasions. My lungs ache; I finally remember to take a breath. As I do, his eyes flicker once, and the red glow fades slowly from them as if he is waking from a dream. He sighs and steps back.

“My _people_,” he says quietly, and runs his fingers through his hair as he turns back to the counter and his cup, “took a war to realize that they were stuck in the past while the world moved forward. While I would not wish it again, a part of me is grateful to Noxus. Maybe we _need_ to burn a few more bridges to light our way to the new future.”

I unclench my fingers and jaw as I allow myself to relax again. “Do you want another war?” I ask softly. I am playing with fire, holding poison over an open wound – yet curiosity drives me forward.

He pauses and hums, cup raised halfway to his lips. “No.” His fingers drum against his thigh, a quick beat of four, the eternal tempo to whatever music sings inside his head. He tips the cup, and I can see some of the tension slowly seep from his body as he drinks. “But I do think that some drastic things might need to take place before we finally move forward as a nation.” He raises it again and I watch as his throat gently bobs and the cup is emptied. Finally, the ritual done, he sets it aside and gestures toward my satchel. “The waterlilies,” he says, and beckons for me to remove the small canvas. “You were working on them the last time we met.”

I shake my head once to clear the residual cobwebs of his reverie. “Yes, of course.” I rummage in the pack and carefully, carefully remove the painting. He takes it gingerly in his hands and flips over the protective paper cover. His brow furrows. 

“You added yellow.”

“_You_ said I should add a light source.”

“Uncross your arms; it’s a painting, not a declaration of war,” he says dryly. He squints at it. “It’s still a decent work, but yellow isn’t like the setting sun at all – it’s _noonday_ sun, and – ”

“Were _you_ thinking of a setting sun?”

“The best studies, my dear,” he says, and half-turns to look at me, “whether of the living or the dead, landscapes or people, are taken just before sunset. It is the life before the fall, the shattering bowl before it flies apart, that pinnacle moment of glory before everything comes crashing down. That,” he says with imperial reverence, “is true Art.”

I stare at him. “Well, maybe I enjoy things in the middle of their glory,” I say peevishly. “Maybe I like things alive and full of it.”

My lack of slackjawed applause seems to have nettled him again. “Oh, you’re certainly full of it,” he mutters.

I squint at him; the blood that rises into my ears is not from infatuation this time. “You can be such a _cynical_ old man.”

His eyes narrow.

“I am cynical because I have seen things you have not,” he says coolly. “I see art in things that are fallen because for so much of my life, that is all I have seen – all I _can _see, because that is all I have been _given_.” I can smell the tea on his breath, floral, sharp as he speaks. “My age may be greater than yours, but do _not_ discount the experience my years have given,” he breathes, voice lowering to a cool drip; my neck prickles with unease_. “Is that clear?”_

He’s usually calmer than this. I don’t know the reasons behind his temper today, but he is not the only one who has seen the tolls war has taken, and he is not the only one whose blood still sings with battle-songs. I refuse to give him another inch. “Crystalline, Master Jhin.” I take a slow breath to steady my voice, allowing steel to silver it. “But at the same time, do not discount the perspectives of youth. You may otherwise,” I say, crossing one leg over another to casually press my knee into his stomach, “pass by a lotus as it rises from the muck by mistaking it for another weed.”

He glances down. The sparks in his eyes dull, and his mouth twists. I wonder if he had even noticed that he had stepped so closely to me again. I feel his stomach move with breath once before he pushes away and turns back to the counter to pick up his cup.

“Clever girl,” he mutters, and sips halfheartedly at the dregs. He sets it down by the bucket he will later wash our dishes in and gives a grunt. “Up, then; our light is setting, and you’ve still a portrait to sit for.”

We do not sit in the living room with its ceilings of flowers and the occupied couch. Instead, we return to the entryway, go up the set of stairs opposite the main door, and then to the second door on the right at the top of the stairs. This door is wrought-iron and glass, and there is a delicate strength to it; the filigree glass lotus blossoms tremble in the grasp of the unyielding iron that curls around them, and I cannot help but wonder if he has used what little magic he has to enchant them in that way.

When we pass into the room, I shiver despite the light that easily streams through the half-curtained windows. The walls are papered; simple black stems climb around cream-colored paper, and the floor is a plain, polished oak. One half is taken up with neat rows of various paints, brushes, and tinctures on a long table; paints not yet mixed, no doubt, but waiting for the skillful application of their master. The other half is a mix of empty spaces and canvases; there is a large painting in the corner, half-surrounded by various lights with another easel in front of it, that draws my attention.

“I spent half a week perfecting a base that should neither burn nor stain the skin,” Jhin says, and sets his tea-tray on the one clear corner of the table. The set seems made for the scene yet does not blend in with the paints surrounding it. A palette and at least a half-dozen soft-bristled brushes are laid on a pressed cloth next to the tray. The chemical scent of the paint mixes with the flowers used in the paste; it stings my nose, and I can’t help but cough.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t burn,” I say, and scrape the taste against my teeth. His brows barely rise as he takes the paint-knife from his belt and adds water into the paste from a porcelain pitcher.

“It shouldn’t sting the _outer_ _skin_,” he says wryly. “I fear I’ve become rather used to the smell.”

“I can’t imagine how,” I mutter, and look again around the room. There are only one or two plain chairs hidden in the back shadows. “Where shall I sit?”

He gives a hum, umber eyes half-lidded with thought. “Stand, actually. In front of that canvas.” He gestures absently with the brush-handle to the painting in the corner; it is surrounded by thick candles in various holders, their flickering light amplified by glowing, green orbs of magic in glass that float around them. The background is already ethereal, reminiscent of deep seas and cold waters – yet something is missing.

_Someone_, actually. Nerves dance around my skin as I recall the role I set myself to play. “Jhin,” I say slowly, my voice betraying my growing unease, “perhaps the portrait should change; surely there is – ”

“You agreed to stand for the portrait knowing full well what it meant the first time,” he says flatly. “But, if you don’t wish to do it, I won’t force you.” He turns to take a drink from his refilled cup. “You would, however, have to leave; I have another work on the couch downstairs I could finish in its stead.” 

The buttons at my throat tighten in protest. “No,” I finally say, steeling my resolve and shushing my self-consciousness, “I did give my word.” 

I can hear the sticky sounds of paint mixing with water. “Good. Get changed, then.”

It doesn’t take long. While his back is turned, I remove my blouse and trousers and step into the costume, hissing once as the cool air breezes over my skin. If I am to stand still for this portrait, it will be by no small mystery. The black silk is like liquid, and the dress that he has made it from it is a masterpiece; it is as much an _idea _of a dress as an actuality. It clings to me like shadows and further contrasts against pale skin like white fire; it melts from my form; it is backless, sleeveless, with a long slit up the thigh and a plunge that ends just above my hips. Only a thin silver circlet holds the front around my neck to keep it from falling. While it is beautiful, it is shocking, and while I understand the reasons behind the exposure, it does little to help with my self-consciousness. I instinctively curl my arms around myself, hiding, shrinking, shivering in front of the canvas.

“That won’t do.” He doesn’t turn from his paints. 

“Easy for you to say.” I frown. “You’re not wearing this costume. All _you_ have to do is mix your paints and work.”

“You of all people should know it’s not half as easy as you make it sound.”

A dark lock of bronze hair falls over my shoulder as I dip my head. He had claimed that this was to help me see my own beauty. I still can’t shake my doubts. If anything, this is only making things worse. In this dress, I cannot hide from my skin. I may share the height of the Ionian women, but I do not share their slenderness. Where they are lean and floral, I am muscle and bone. If they are silk, I am stone. In my form are both the hardness of the warrior and the curved hope of the someday-mother. How I wish I could shrink, become more like those delicate maidens instead of the lumbering ox I am. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of my differences, my _alienness_, my foreignness. I am the mace among swords, the wattle-reed among the lilies, the –

A pressure at my chin causes me to look up. Jhin’s face is inches from mine, brow furrowed. “Stop that,” he says, quiet and firm. He props my chin with a brush-handle as a dry cloth is pressed gently to my face. “I won’t be able to paint if you’re crying.”

Of course he is thinking of the paint. I can feel the air cool on the tracks my tears have left over my bare skin. I’m just glad my nose hasn’t dripped. “Should I close my eyes?” 

His face is already bent over his palette again. “If you must.”

I take a long breath to compose myself. “What pose do you want me in?” I can’t keep the irritation from my voice; the cold and embarrassment have raised my color again. “Should I be holding something?” I gesture at one of the orbs and the floating, green magic flames contained within its clear glass. “One of those, perhaps?”

“It took me seven days to adjust the spells within those to make them float at the right height, and another two to arrange them to mix with the candle-flame for the proper light-composition. No, Jora,” he says dryly, and pronounces it right, the _J _like a Demacian _Y, _“in short, I do not.”

He doesn’t always use my name. Somehow its use seems too familiar, especially in this dress, and I can feel the blood rush to my ears and lips and cheeks again. “What would you have me do, then?”

He glances up from his paints again, a thick brush laden with Ionian purple held in his long fingers. “Hold still,” he says quietly, and in the dull light burning in his eyes, I can see genius starting to stir.

I still can’t suppress the flinch my body gives at the brush on my side, a gentle, tickling, soft sensation; it is not unpleasant. Cool trails of purple rise from the small of my and back up my side; I begin to fade into the painting at his touch. I give a snort as the brush runs over a particularly-ticklish spot, and although he shushes me again, there is a faint curve to his lips. 

The concentration in the room demands our silence; I have fallen into a neutral pose with my dark hair falling around my shoulders and my head facing forward with my palms held towards the viewer. Though I cannot see Jhin’s full scope of this work, from what I know and what my view affords of my skin, I already know this painting is a masterpiece, even with me at its center. Sea-jade green bleeds into indigo purples on my arms and back, darkening at the shadows of my dress and warming into rippling golds near my sternum and abdomen. Flickers of golden light dance through my arms, following my veins, making the paint flow with life. I have been instructed to speak as little as possible, which is probably for the better. I cannot trust my voice to stay steady when the Artist looks so closely at me, and especially not when he later removes his shirt in the rising heat and setting sun of the sunroom. I am suddenly quite glad for the breeziness of my own garb.

“You would think sunset would make it cooler,” I swallow and avert my eyes as he folds and sets the fabric aside. He shrugs, and I mentally list the groups of muscles that shift beneath his tawny skin.

“That is the beauty of Ionian construction,” he says simply. His torso is marked with faint scarring, white lines scoring over his flesh like seafoam on sand. I wonder how he got them. “These rooms were built to stay warm in the night and cool in the day.” He half-turns back to me as he mixes more paint. “The blush brings out your eyes,” he says offhandedly. “Winter apples below cool seas...”

I can barely murmur my thanks before he is already kneeling in front of me, another small brush in hand, cream-white paint on horsehair. His fingers curve around my hip as he brushes aside the black silk with his thumb. A pale, red-tipped lotus begins to bloom around my navel. The brush’s strokes tickle, and my stomach folds slightly as I bravely attempt to suppress a giggle; it’s more easily-accomplished when there are about five other different sensations on my hip I’m trying desperately to ignore at the same time.

“Don’t squirm.” He raises his face from my living canvas, and my breath catches. I curse myself as my face warms, yet I cannot banish that image from my mind: The embers in his eyes are glowing a warm, mesmerizing red. He clicks his tongue, looks back at the paints, and reaches for the wide-bristled brush with its soft hair and the purple again. “The paint at your sides is cracking.”

I know how difficult blending paints becomes when they’re dried, but at the moment, I feel like _I’m_ about to crack. I run my tongue over dry lips and take a shuddering breath. He furrows his brows and frowns.

“Tea. Of course. You do need to drink.”

“Thank you for remembering I’m not a statue.”

He gives a low chuckle. I smirk at his back as he turns and walks back to the table and lifts the still-warm teakettle to pour water into my leaves. I lower my arms to rotate my shoulders and accept the cup, but he quickly whirls around, eyes wide. 

“Not yet!” he barks. My brows furrow with confusion and frustration. 

“Not yet? How am I supposed to drink, then?”

He turns to me with my cup held in both of his hands. “Open your mouth,” he orders.

If I wasn’t blushing before, I am now. The thought of my cousin’s wedding-ceremony, where the groom raised the two-handled _vesqat _to his bride’s lips before she raised it for him to drink in turn, rises unbidden to my brain. The delicate glazed clay he holds is nothing like the carved wooden goblet back home, yet my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth at the thought. 

Jhin’s brow rises. “Are you not thirsty?”

_Curse this girlish heart_, I mutter silently, and nod. I thank him and drink as warm glaze presses against my lips. My brow furrows. That was not the cool mint of my cup. It was floral, earthy --

I nearly feel my heart stop as he smiles and takes the cup back, pressing it to his mouth. _His. _ “You’re welcome.”

My thoughts are racing madly. I can’t shake the knowledge that my lips were on the other side of that cup. It was tea that we drank, not the wine of marriage, yet –

If I was not under orders to not move, I would shake my head violently to dispel the thoughts that are running, laughing and daisy-headed, through my mind. Instead, I take a breath, hold it, and force myself to –

“Hold still.” This is accompanied by a gentle touch, a finger and thumb raised to my chin instead of a brush, and my throat bobs as he stares into my eyes.

“A man shouldn’t stand so closely to a woman while she is covered in nothing but paint and silk.” My tongue betrays me with the whisper as pinpricks race all over my body.

He stares into my eyes, red lights, setting suns, red lanterns in umber holds. I can feel my pulse racing beneath a finger that rests on my throat. “Why is that, my apprentice?”

He is no fool. I swallow, avert my gaze, feel the blood rushing through my every limb and part. “The paint may crack.”

He takes a long, slow breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. “The paint may crack.” His eyes are half-closed; his voice is low, hypnotic. I can barely hear the fingers on his left hand tap a calm rhythm against his leg over the roar of my heartbeat… one… two… three… 

There is a faint pressure on my chin, tiling my face towards his; I am powerless to do anything but follow. There is hot breath on my lips; my breath hitches as he bends.

_Four. _

“We wouldn’t want that, then, would we?”

He releases my chin and turns. I gasp in surprise and sway where I stand, stunned from the absence of his presence.

His voice slides like warm honey into my veins, but the only sensation I feel is _lack_. Something in me is crying desperately for that presence, that pull in front of me again – a call like a black hole into which I would gladly dive. “I want to remember that look in your eyes,” he murmurs. I watch his arms and shoulders move as he mixes new paint. “It is….” He turns back, and in the shadows, his eyes burn like coals. “Mesmerising.”

I feel every breath falling in synch with his steps, slow, deliberate, purposeful.

One. 

The brush drinks into the purple again.

_“You_ are art,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the side of my ribcage. His brush kisses purple up my other side.

Two. 

“You are _strong_.” His fingers slide to a stop at my hip-bone, where the paint is still drying. I can feel his pointer finger tapping his rhythm into my trembling skin.

Three. 

The brush slows, luxuriant, agonizing. “Do you know of the tradition of the _vesqat_?”

Four.

I numbly open my mouth to speak, and he presses a kiss behind my ear. It is too much. My legs fail me, and I fall into his arms with a gasp, golden sunlight haloing me in its warm light. The brush falls to the ground, and his hands rise to my shoulders, pressing him to me, warm, solid, the sun itself manifest and burning against my skin. 

“Paint me, my apprentice,” he whispers. “I know it hasn’t dried.”

I nearly burst into flame on the spot. It feels like pushing away the world to separate myself from his embrace for even a moment. “Why have me stand here so long, then?”

He sighs and runs his hands down my arms to hold my own. “The portrait was to paint an image to linger in my mind’s eye. To reveal your beauty to yourself through the eyes of one who could appreciate it,” he explains. I feel a thousand sensations wherever his fingers trace, and glance down to see an echoed image of the lotus blossom pressed low on his stomach. 

I nearly swallow my tongue in shock. “Why?”

“Because you are _perfection_.” He presses a kiss to my crown. “Because I wanted to see you in the light of the setting sun before you fell. Because I needed to capture your beauty in my mind’s eye before I could show it to you.” He hums and draws back. “Oh, but don’t worry. I’ll paint the final result later.” He bends to my ear again, his voice as dark and indulgent as velvet. “Your performance,” he purrs, “was legendary.”

I can’t find the proper emotion for annoyance as he buries his nose in my neck and drinks in my scent. “You _knew_.” 

A star blooms beneath his lips at my nape. “_You_ made it obvious.”

I pull away and frown at him; it dissolves in a moment under the heat of his red-glowing eyes. Yet I will not yet be defeated. My fingers wrap behind his neck as I pull his face towards mine. There is something dark in his eyes, burning like the sun, a fraying rope quickly burning away. For a moment, I am frozen, chest heaving, lips slightly parted, staring at his lips. I can hear our breath, feel the electricity in the air; I am paralyzed by all around me.

“Well, my apprentice…” His voice breaks through my stillness, a faint mockery, a soft beckoning. “You’ve come this far for just a look.”

Annoyance and determination strengthen my arms. I brace myself and pull, and his lips and teeth crash into mine. The kiss is clumsy, and for a moment I fear he’ll break away or push me aside. He tastes like tea and lotuses, like blood and promise and something rich and tempting; I cut his lip against my teeth when I pulled him to me. The realization jolts fear down my spine, I pull away to apologize, but he pulls me back towards him and laughs into my lips.

“So _that’s _what you want.” 

He leans into me and I stumble until my back is against the canvas, against our backdrop, where I can feel the dried brush-strokes scrape into my skin. Candles flicker orange light over our skin, and a green orb of flame tips slightly as the painting ripples.

I gasp and break apart. “We’ll ruin your work!”

He growls at my absence and presses his fingers into the knots at my shoulders. I give a faint, sharp cry and fall into him again. “_You_ are my work,” he hisses fiercely. “_Hang_ the canvas.”

He trails kisses up my jaw, blesses my ears, gives new life to lips, and paints lights beneath my skin and in my bones and organs. He runs his hands down my arms to my wrists and raises them to his lips, cruelly hovering millimeters from them before he gives a deadly smile and turns away.

“We need another drink,” he purrs.

I watch as he walks towards the tea-table and removes the cup from its stand.

“Take my cup of life and drink; raise the goblet to our lips.”

I feel my throat catch. _He is speaking my language._ He lifts up his cup and turns back to me. His accent is flawless. But what he is saying are….

“Take my life into you, and yours into mine I’ll be.” He turns and lowers the cup of cooling tea to my lips. “Be the water in my veins, the blood in my heart, and until we are severed…”

“Let none our love-knot untie.” _Wedding-vows._ I can’t speak Ionian now, not with those words in my brain. The speech of the North bursts from my lips. “Do you know what you’re _saying_?” I can’t bring myself to drink until I know he hasn’t been taught this as some sort of joke – but he is too intelligent for that, and he spoke with such passion…

He half-lowers the cup, brow furrowed in annoyance. The sunset is fading to orange on his skin, and the only remaining signs of his afternoon genius are painted in blurred lines on my arms and chest. “My dear apprentice,” he says coolly, “in all our time that you have known me, what has been my pursuit?”

“Perfection in art, Master.” Something flares in his eyes when I speak the title, and a smile curves his lips. 

“Perfection,” he purrs. “Tell me, Apprentice,” he says again, measured steps turning him from me back to his table, “am I a fool?”

“No, sir.” 

He hums in agreement. “Good. Because I studied that passage for _months_ to say to you.” He drums his fingers. I can feel every breath in my lungs, every scratch from the canvas at my back, every drop of blood that races through me. “And what is your answer?” His voice is calm, quiet… _vulnerable._

I take a breath and steady my courage as I quietly step forward and wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my head on his back. My lips press to his spine. “What do you think?”

I only get a long, low, shuddering breath as a warning before he whirls around and picks me up, and I give a yelp of surprise as he sets me on the table. My arms are somehow still around his torso; he kisses my clavicle and frees himself from my numb arms, chest heaving.

“I think I should marry you,” he rasps. I can see his fingers trembling in the corner of my vision as he picks up the cup again. “Unless you would rather we move on,” he growls, and I don’t want to admit how much I consider the idea. Yet somewhere I can hear the disapproving voice of even my more openminded mother, and take a breath as my legs dangle off the table’s edge.

I raise my jaw and smile at the dumbfounded expression that briefly flashes over his face. He is not the only one who is strong. He is not the only one with this power. 

“Bring the cup,” I whisper, “and we’ll start again. Not a moment before we are wed shall you have me.”

He takes another long breath. “You are a cruel mistress,” he hisses, and hovers in the air around me.

It takes tremendous willpower to resist his presence. I press a finger to his lips. _“Not a moment,”_ I order again. He gives a wry smile and presses it between his teeth; my temperature spikes at the gentle pain, and he turns away. 

“Very well,” he sighs. He takes the cup gingerly in his fingers. “Jora Wyldsdottir,” he says, and I hate how flawless his accent is, “my Apprentice. My flame. In your imperfections and flaws I find an art that sings unlike anything I have seen. I have seen the blossom of blood and of steel on the battlefield. I have seen horror and beauty, pain and pleasure… and sometimes both,” he purrs, and I swallow thickly. “You still stumble, yet you continue to pursue art, to pursue your talents. You did not break under my tutelage. You did not become another empty vessel to fill.” He raises the cup to my lips and steps forward, bending his lips to my ear as he speaks. “Jora, Jora, Jora, _Jora_,” he whispers, and the paint on his hands stains the cup as I drink. “Take my cup of life and drink; raise the goblet to our lips. Take my life into you, and yours into mine I’ll be. Be the water in my veins, the blood in my heart, and until we are severed, let none our love-knot untie.”

I run my tongue over my lips as I take the cup and raise it to him in turn. “There is no way you practiced _that _part for two months,” I laugh softly.

He smiles. “Don’t forget your vows.” He raises his hands to curl around mine. “If you want to do this properly, that is.”

“Well, we can’t have anything other than perfection.”

He gives an impatient growl and tips his head back. “You’re dragging this out,” he hisses. I smile and lower a hand to press against his stomach; his eyes widen, and I can feel the muscles tense at my touch.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

His eyes flash crimson fire as he lowers a hand to cover mine, sliding my hand to his side and pressing my fingers over the white scar above his hip. “Speak the vows.” I could pluck a song on the chords in his neck. _“Please.” _

Well, there _is _a first for everything. “Khada Jhin,” I breathe, and press the cup to his lips, “Master Artist. Seer of hidden beauty. Beautiful in my eyes. May we be bound as you have said. Let me take your life into me. Let our blood flow from my veins; may our fields be as rich as our love. Let those who would come against us fall; keep not yourself from me, nor I from you. Let me be your sword in battle, your shield in rest, your love in the land of the enemy. May our hearts be true before all gathered here –” I peer around him; there isn’t even an unfinished portrait in the room. Well. We can still work with this. “And in the sights of the gods,” I add quickly, “who see all.” 

He keeps any cynicism to himself and his eyes on mine. “May I drink, Jora?” he says softly. 

“If you wish to wed me properly,” I smile. He closes his eyes as I tip the cup. Cold tea sparkles on his lips and drips from his chin when I lower it.

“You raised it too quickly,” he accuses, narrowing his gaze at me. One hand still is on mine at his hip; the other covers mine at the cup. I bat my eyes innocently.

“Oops.”

“Is there anything else?” he breathes. “Any rituals? Sacrifices?” He steps closer; my arm at his hip slides around and up to the muscles at his shoulders, and his chest presses into mine. “What else must I do before you’re mine?”

I hum as he kisses my ear. “Nothing, I think.”

He leans back with a long, contented sigh.

“Good.” He plucks the cup from my weak hand and flings it violently across the room. He doesn’t bother to look back as it shatters. Well. I hope he wasn’t planning on a divorce.

“Now,” he purrs. His voice is low, warm, heavy. He bends his lips to my ears, and I strain as I lean towards him. “I’ve had my turn. _Paint me.”_

I draw back in shock and stare at him silently for a moment. My chest heaves. “_WHAT?!” _

He smiles, unrepentant, and steps back, arms spread wide. _“Paint me,” _he breathes.

My fingers fumble on the brush he presses into my hands.

“You are _impossible.” _I pause. “Why should I paint you?” The dress flows behind me like water as I slip to the ground and pick up the palette. “You are…”

“Hideous.” I almost laugh, but he is serious. His hands drop at his side; his jaw juts forward as he stares out the window. My brow furrows.

“No. You never have been.”

He half-turns, a dry smile carving its way onto his face. “Oh? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; I hear what they say, how others perceive me.” His arms cross, and only after some very firm prying do I get them to unfold. This time my snort cannot be stifled.

“As a handsome, mysterious older man with a talent for art?”

“Symmetrical.” He spits out the world like poison. “They say I’m _perfectly_ _symmetrical_. Boring. Dull.”

I pause, gold paint on the brush in hand. Is he really complaining about his _symmetry?_ “Some say it’s aesthetically pleasing.”

He snorts. “Perfection is in _imperfection_,” he spits. He gestures to me. “The lines on your skin, the slight differences in the dichotomy of your form – these are only things which further…” he takes a breath, and the next line comes out in a dark purr, “_enthrall _me.”

The paintbrush falters in my hand. My toes curl. “Do you want me to _paint_ you or not?”

“Paint me, watch me, tell me what I need to do,” he murmurs. His eyes glint as he shifts. “Tell me to _kill_ and I’ll do it.”

A dark part of me knows he means it. I swallow and dip the brush into paint. It is a battle to force myself to not focus on his skin, on his smell, on his very _presence_ as I paint a swirl of gold over his left pectoral and trail it down his torso. The remnants of my paint on his skin provide the perfect backdrop for my work. He hums softly and stays perfectly still while I work, providing both the music and the canvas for my inspiration. He has a beautiful voice; with his unknown song in my ears, I can envision the trails of gold filigreeing his form on one side, the latticework of red veins and lotuses I could paint on the other through the dusky backdrop of cool colors left from my skin. At last, it is finished; I smile. I can feel my paint cracking by the time I’m done.

“Look in the mirror,” I say finally. He refuses.

“What do you see?” he asks instead.

“A stubborn man who refuses to look in a mirror,” I huff. “_Despite_ the fact that you just told me you’d even kill for me.”

He looks down.

“You painted me half-gold,” he murmurs, his lips quirking upward. “Do you know what color I painted you most?”

“Purple.” 

“Then you are aware,” he says proudly, “of how we complement each other.”

“Contrasts complement,” I echo, and nod. Even after our separation, the blurred flowers and lights on my skin are still a testament to his skill. “But my paint is cracking,” I murmur, and roll my shoulders; my head lolls in exhaustion as I raise myself to sit back on the table.

“Is it now?”

I glance down; his hands rest on the table by my hips; damp paint covers his palm as he presses his left hand into the palette; his right taps out a slow rhythm. In the next breath, he picks me up; I laugh, and my legs instinctively wrap around him as his right hand cradles my neck. I can feel wet paint on his fingers as they toy with the clasp at the back of my dress, and gasp when I hear it click.

“Then we’d best paint our masterpiece before _my_ paint dries…”


End file.
